


thermodynamics

by myhandisempty



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, The Moxlea Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5850451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhandisempty/pseuds/myhandisempty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a big difference between synthesis and decomposition, that much Mox knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thermodynamics

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to write anything for way, way over a month, and this is the first thing I've finished since then. I don't particularly like it, but it's too long to post on my blog so it's going here. Hoping to get a chapter done for the longer fic sometime soon, but I'm not holding my breath on that.
> 
> For the prompt: Leakee/Mox, first time? Like they had always teased each other (typical MoxLea dynamics) but one day Mox or Leakee decides to take a step forward.. almost challenging the other. It then becomes a back n forth type of thing.

There's a small building on the other side of the tracks, nestled in amongst all the other small buildings that make up this godforsaken shithole of a town. The light colored roof stands just a little taller than each of the surrounding ones, standing at its full height to look down on the lesser offices and stores that sit just far enough away to maintain a veneer of untouchable purity, and every Saturday night they put on a wrestling show.

It's a nice joint, a real standup establishment, the type of place that knows better than to open its doors to someone like him, but Mox finds himself there every week anyway, even though he’s not in competition. Always gotta be prepared, scope out the competition, examine anyone who may jump promotions, because tonight’s entertainment could always be tomorrow’s opponent. There’s a ring set up in the middle of a wide room, a large bar off to the side, serving a wider variety of alcohol than Mox will ever have need for.

And that — loosely gripping a bottle of the cheapest beer they had for sale and leaning onto the back legs of his chair, slouched down into it, taking up as much space as his body can occupy — is how he met Leakee.

 

*

 

“That may have been your worst match yet.”

Mox can feel Leakee rolling his eyes even with the other man’s back facing him. One of the side effects, maybe, of watching his expressions and body language so closely both in the ring and out of it. It started out as normal scouting procedure, what he would do for any newcomer, but. They're here now, and Leakee’s shoulder twitches once toward his neck, and Mox knows his mouth has been set in a line and his teeth are clenched inside it, though none of that will be visible on his face by the time Mox sets sight on it. It's a study in cause and effect, in cascade reactions, which have always been something of his specialty. Finding that one perfect variable needed to reach the outcome he wants, then marveling at what it looks like, the journey from initialization to that desired endpoint.

Mox is surprised, still, at all the different paths Leakee’s face has taken only to settle on disgust. He’s had to keep adjusting his methods, but the results give him confidence that he’s on the right track.

He’s crouched down, zipping his gear bag up, and Mox takes the opportunity to slide into his line of vision, watching for the drag of those eyes over his body and up to his face. He’s not exactly disappointed, and when Leakee runs his tongue over his lips, there are a thousand different thoughts that flicker through his head, each dirtier and more depraved than the last.

Leakee, more often than not, uses that tongue in a different sort of wicked way, caustic remarks spit out with the type of unaffected coolness Mox has never been able to master. Sometimes, with the chill of Leakee’s narrowed gaze on him, there’s something that feels like heat behind it, and Mox’s imagination runs a bit wild. He wants to hear what sort of words Leakee would have for him with his tongue flattened to the bottom of his mouth, running over the underside of his cock. Wants to know just how scathing an endless string of vowels can sound.

Mox’s daydreams are interrupted by that mouth twisting in a smirk rather than the scowl he’d anticipated. “Still hanging around to catch a glimpse, I see. I would say you could feel free to leave at any time, but I know they don’t take the trash out until the end of the night.”

His lips pull tight over grit teeth, hand clenching and releasing over and over. Mox taps a toe against the floor for the sound, for something to do with his body, and Leakee pulls up to his full height, bag slung over his shoulder. Mox mirrors the posture. “Awful cocksure for someone who got his ass handed to him tonight. I’m just sayin’ —”

“You’re always just saying,” Leakee interrupts him, because he’s less classy than he cares to believe and likes the sound of his own voice better than anyone else’s, Mox especially. “A lot of talk and no action is all I’ve ever seen from you. You don’t deserve the reputation you have.”

“You want action?” Mox sneers, taking a few steps closer to Leakee. The other man is slowly backing up, probably attempting to escape, but he’s running into the wall rather than the doorway, pinning himself into a corner. “Could come with me. I’ll show you plenty’a moves.”

Leakee snorts at him. “I think I'm good.” He’s flat against the wall now, but he doesn’t look remotely trapped, and Mox just wants to corner him in.

He gets as close to Leakee as he can without touching him. They’re just about the same height, Mox notices, their eyes meeting without having to find each other. There’s a different sort of energy flowing between them, now, and Mox makes a mental note to stand in Leakee’s space more often. “See, I'm not so sure about that. If the way you work in the ring is any fuckin’ indication, you ain't got a whole lot goin’ on for you in bed, either.”

Leakee stares at him for a beat or two, and his eyes are almost steely. The right application of heat, of pressure, and even he can be broken, melted down. “Wouldn't you like to know,” he says, and Mox is pretty sure that’s the point he’s been trying to make for the last few months, yeah. He reaches up and casually runs a palm over the fabric covering Leakee’s shoulder, makes like he’s brushing it off, then lets his hand rest there a moment. There's plenty of warmth radiating from the spot, heating his cool fingers that squeeze for a moment and then release again. Looking at where they’re touching, Mox sees Leakee glance to his hand out of the corner of his eye and smiles his best shit-eating grin.

“Y’know, someday, m’gonna fuck you. Maybe let you fuck me.” He leans his head in, bringing his lips to Leakee’s ear, nearly brushes them against his cheekbone on the way, waiting for him to jerk away, like they’re playing chicken. Maybe that’s what this is, what it’s been this entire time. It’s a game that Mox will never lose. He’s willing to push as far as it takes to make Leakee be the one to give. “And you’ll be so keyed up for me, it’ll be the best lay you ever had.”

The corner of Leakee’s mouth moves upward as he pulls back, and Mox is still so close to him he wonders if he can feel the way his dick twitches with it. It’s gone before he can even think to comment on it, though, and Leakee is shoving him back with one hand, the other gripping his bag even tighter. “Someday, I’m going to knock that smug grin off your face, and you’re going to thank me.” He stops and stares at Mox for just a beat too long, before he turns and actually exits the room, this time.

Mox braces himself against the wall with one hand, feeling a little winded and a lot turned on, silently debating the merits of palming himself through his pants. The air feels a little thick in the room, a little harder to breathe, and he has a lot to think about when he leaves, that week.

 

*

 

The thing is, he's not even a _good wrestler_. He's got size and potential, but he's far too green and he telegraphs all his moves and he's too slow when he should be quick and speeds through things when he should take his time, and Mox never misses the opportunity to remind him.

That first week, the first moment Leakee had stepped foot in the ring, he'd thought: holy shit, oh, fuck. Watching the match had been bad enough, a combination of the amateur moves and Mox’s distraction from the wrestling itself, but a few minutes of talking afterward had made it worse—Leakee was sarcastic and cocky and still looked at Mox with these slanted eyes that were almost curious, that held something like possibility, like he had never heard the rumors that Mox himself had at times perpetuated, and Mox had smirked at him like it was something he was used to seeing from someone like him. And then, because he was more interested in seeing how ugly this pretty thing could be, he'd leaned over, slurring that Leakee had only accurately performed three moves during his match, and spilled the remainder of his beer all over him.

Leakee had scowled and started pushing Mox away, and Mox had pretended not to be completely fascinated and said “Oops,” as unapologetically as possible and cracked up, a high pitched cackle as he watched the transformation sweep across Leakee’s face, and Leakee had narrowed his eyes and growled “You owe me a new jacket,” and his tone made something spark under Mox’s skin and when he gave a lazy salute and said “See you next week,” it came out maybe a little more hopeful than he meant it.

He hasn’t really been welcome in Leakee’s space, since, because the guy can’t roll with the punches at all, but there’s something about him that Mox can’t let go of. He’s chasing the one that got away, so to speak, the one fuck he never got to give, because if he ever gets the opportunity, now, Mox thinks there are an awful lot of fucks he’d like to give Leakee. But more than that, he wants to take him, this whole thing, and break him down to the most basic level, take each piece in hand and turn it over until they lose their luster. Until he understands, wholly and exactly, what makes Leakee tick.

Decomposition, dismantling an entity into its base sum of parts, because he’s never been particularly good at building anything up besides himself. The stability of anything is eventually limited when it comes into contact with extreme environmental conditions, and Mox could never be accused of being moderate or tame.

Then, when the endpoint is reached and Mox has finished him, used him all up, reduced him to nothing more than the elements at his core, he’ll stand there, sharpest smile on his face, and take it all in. Randomness, entropy, outlasts every reaction known to man, is never depleted or used up, and Leakee is just the next in line of many.

There’s always been something gratifying about taking something that stands just a little too tall and tearing it down. It’s why little kids learn to push over other children on the playground, to smash sandcastles into the dirt, it’s why it’s cathartic to take a sledgehammer to drywall and just pound away, it’s the reason Mox does what he does.

That satisfaction of messing with a good thing, ruining it. Watching something crumble to pieces while you stand tall above it. Everyone remembers the last blow, the final straw that put them flat on their back, and Mox isn’t quite ready for Leakee to forget about him just yet.

 

*

 

Leakee’s already in the ring by the time Mox arrives, this week, after he pulled himself out of bed to arrive nearly an hour and a half late, and that bothers him for some reason, that he missed a part of his match when he never has before. He’s never cared before about continuity, about watching someone improve, because Leakee’s still not good but he’s getting better, but Mox likes seeing it, likes documenting when his suggestions, spit out with vitriol as they occasionally are, have been taken to heart. Likes knowing he’s left an impression. Likes knowing that Leakee is still listening, even when it seems he’s tuned out.

That's the other thing. Leakee hasn't lost his patience, yet, and he doesn't strike Mox as the type to have much of it to spare.

“Hey,” he says, sliding up next to Leakee in the back after his match, shoulder propping him up against the wall. He runs a hand over his face, real quick. Mox is tired—he stayed out too late last night, drank maybe a little too much, hasn’t slept for three nights running and it’s sinking like a thick, heavy blanket of fog into his bones—and he shouldn’t even be here, out of his element as he is. He just wants to see that scowl, hopes it will jump start something in his head to get him through the next week.

Leakee has become a habit—the one person who won’t take him seriously, no matter how many times Mox tells him exactly what's on his mind. Mox acts like he’s making a joke out of it, throws terrible lines out at every opportunity, mostly because his cock really likes the way Leakee glares when he says no.

Leakee isn’t saying no right now, though, or returning pleasantries, or even turning Mox away. He narrows his eyes, but it’s more a question than an admonition. “You look like shit, Moxley.”

Leakee always says his name like it's a joke only he doesn't get, despite the lack of actual amusement present in his tone or face. If there's one thing that Mox can't stand, fights tooth and nail against, it's the feeling that he's missing something, that someone has answers they aren't willing to share, that he has to find a way to take.

Mox chuckles anyway, like he's in on it, the sound a little hysterical to his ears. “Fuck you,” he says, lacking a lot of the normal heat in favor of a sly smile. “I look incredible. Always. Feel like shit, a little, though,” he admits, scrubbing at his eyes once more before focusing them on Leakee, who’s watching him warily, because he knows well enough that he should. His hands are twitching at his sides a little, and Mox smiles at that, the realization that he makes Leakee feel a bit nervous. He’s always particularly liked the idea that he makes Leakee feel anything at all.

“That’s what hard liquor does to you.” Leakee’s voice is dry, and his arms are crossed, resting against his chest. He looks vaguely amused, minus the fingers tapping against his biceps. It’s not an entirely new expression on his face, but the look is enough to settle the thoughts buzzing in Mox’s head, temporarily.

“Yeah,” he returns, distracted by the slight smile, the bulge of muscle visible just under the sleeve of his t-shirt. He’s seen them on full display, as recently as a few minutes ago, but it’s different, up close, here. He’d like to strip off that fabric, run his hands over those arms, pin them down in the center of a ring or to a mattress. Mox straightens up a little, relaxes so his back is to the wall, elbows propped against it. “Maybe. Maybe I’m feeling a little bit under the weather, here. Maybe I just need a good dicking to set things straight, right? Know where I can find one of those arou—”

His words are cut off by a pair of lips on his, and it takes Mox an embarrassingly long time to realize that they’re attached to Leakee. He’s being pushed into the wall, Leakee pinning him there with his hips. They’re connected at so many points that Mox’s brain lights up with all the sensory information flying through it—he grabs hold of Leakee’s hair and tugs on it, adds one more feeling to the list.

There’s something incendiary about kissing Leakee, about feeling his semi pressing against his hip and growing harder by the second. There’s the slightest thrust of those hips against him, and a charge runs all through his body. It’s fire in his veins, combustion, the volatile way they meet, not exactly pleasant but exciting, all the same. Mox’s head feels like it’s floated a foot away from the rest of him, like he’s skipped five steps and isn’t quite sure how he got to where he is now. And he’s not normally one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but. He tears his mouth away for a second, just enough to nose at Leakee’s neck, lips following the trail, trying to hide the way his breath is coming out in harsh pants. “Don’t you fuckin’ interrupt me.” There’s a pause while he waits for Leakee to do just that. It doesn’t come, though, and Mox looks at him with a self-satisfied grin. “What do you even like about me?”

Leakee looks at him like he’s speaking gibberish, like he’s crazy, like why would he stop what they’re doing to ask such a dumbass question. “Absolutely nothing,” he mutters, before diving in for another kiss, but Mox dodges it, just to be a dick.

“Good. Feeling’s mutual, then.” It’s a relief to know that nothing’s changed, even as it’s changing at a pace that he can barely keep up with, that he’s thriving on.

Leakee turns his head to the side and laughs, this full bodied thing that Mox has never heard come out of him before, and threads a single hand into Mox’s hair, gives it a rough tug of his own. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Hnngh,” is the best way Mox knows to describe the sound that comes out of his mouth, the pain shooting through his head deadened by the feeling of Leakee’s lips on his again. It’s a good give and take, he thinks, when Mox is used to being the one doing most of the taking. Leakee is solid, pressed up against him, a hand squeezing Mox’s hip deliciously, for a second, and then he’s the one breaking the kiss, pulling his mouth away.

“Don’t think even my cock is enough to help with that. But, let’s get out of here. Set you straight, like you said.” He twists the hand in Mox’s hair, again, nails scratching sharply against his scalp, and Mox feels his knees go a little weak.

“Straight is the last word I’d use to describe this, sunshine,” he says, mustering every ounce of bite he can, trying to sound as unaffected as possible, because he is, but Leakee smirks and calls his bluff. His hair is pulled one more time, a quick jerk of that hand, and Mox gives a moan, open-mouthed against the base of Leakee’s neck, where he’s held in place.

“Call it whatever you want,” is barely more than a whisper in his ear — Leakee’s breath over his skin the strangest sensation Mox has felt in awhile. “Just try to keep up.”

His hair is released, then, and Mox jerks his head back, puts space back between them. He lets a scowl cross his face, showing his disapproval, and grabs at the soft leather of Leakee’s belt. Broken in, just like he will be after tonight. “Hmm,” he hums, giving the strap a tug to pull that part of Leakee closer. “Remember you said that when you’re staring up from the flat of your back.”

He turns around abruptly, hand still wrapped around Leakee’s belt, leading him out of the building by it.

 

*

 

If someone asked Mox where he spent the most time besides his apartment, he'd probably name that fucking building. If they asked what his least favorite spot to hang out was, his answer would be the same. It's just a little too big to be familiar and a little too pristine to be welcoming and it frequently houses one of the biggest jerkoffs he's ever met.

The problem with habits is that they creep up unexpectedly, insidiously, until you look around and you know your life hasn't always been this way, but you can't quite recall a before, all the same. Some of these routines are good: exercising, reading, saving money, and some are, well.

Leakee always waits for him after matches, even when his isn’t last and Mox stays to watch the others and he’s long since packed up, always holding himself with the same towering bravado, always with that withering insult he took all week thinking up on the tip of his tongue. Mox, for his part, has trouble picturing a situation where he could walk away from that sting, from the way Leakee is sometimes so ice cold that it burns.

Mox is an asshole, yeah, he's vengeful and smug and thinks only about what others can do for him and never the other way around, and what's more is he knows this all and he likes it, too. Leakee is different. He doesn't make Mox want to be a better, semi-decent person, but for the first time in as long as he can remember, he's looking at another human being and trying to determine what they want from him—not strictly to give that to them, but not necessarily to do the opposite, either. He looks at Leakee and wonders a little bit more about what noises he could coax out of the other man’s mouth and less about what Leakee could do to get those sounds out of him.

There's more than one way to break a habit. There's replacing it with something else. There's weaning yourself off, a little at a time. There's going cold turkey. Each one requires giving something up, though, and Mox has never done well with feeling deprived. He's also never been good at quitting when it's the smart thing to do. Not, at least, while there's still something in it for him.

 

*

Mox has Leakee pressed against his bedroom door as soon as it slams shut behind them. Leakee’s pants are already undone—zipped down when Mox attempted to jerk him off in the moving car, before Leakee had nearly crashed into a parked car and demanded he wait despite the fact that he seemed to be enjoying himself well enough—and Mox helps make short work of getting them the rest of the way off.

His hands run up and under Leakee’s shirt, pushing it high enough to reveal Leakee’s abs. Mox runs two fingers through one of the dips between the muscles, digs his nails in and revels in the huff of air Leakee lets out in response. His grin is cut off by their mouths meeting, again, and Mox repeats that sharp drag across Leakee’s stomach, catches that exhaled breath in his mouth.

It’s Leakee, then, grabbing at Mox’s shirt and pulling it over his head, yanking at it when it gets caught and doesn’t slide easily off. He’s pulled in violently toward Leakee as it’s finally torn off his head, and Mox pushes him back toward the bed, hard, lets out a laugh as his legs give out beneath him and he falls onto the mattress.

“Bet this feels _pre_ tty familiar, don’t it,” Mox drawls, jumping up onto the bed and straddling Leakee, pushing him back down into it when he tries to rise up. He grinds his hips down for a moment, rubbing against Leakee’s barely clothed cock, and is rewarded with a whistle of air sucked in sharply through clenched teeth. “Shoulders pinned down by another man. Must be pretty used to it, by now.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to shut your damn mouth before it takes?” Leakee is glowering up at him, bucks his hips in an attempt to unbalance Mox on top of him, throw him off, but all he really succeeds in doing is grinding them back together again. A moan from Leakee, while Mox holds his in, and he’s smirking down at Leakee.

“Patience, princess.” He shifts his weight to better keep Leakee in place and leans down to lick a stripe up Leakee’s neck, a little too wet to really be anywhere near sexy. Leakee jerks away from the touch, and Mox sits back up, letting his tongue hang out and biting down on it with a playful grin. This is the fun part, still. He’s just getting warmed up. “You think you had a main event match tonight? This is the real main event. Just try and last a round with me. See how good you think you are after this.”

Leakee pushes against Mox’s hips with both hands — it’s only then he realizes his jeans are half undone, and Mox grabs those hands in his fists, pushes them away. “What did I just fuckin’ say? Pay attention.” He slaps at Leakee’s face, once, not as hard as he’d like to. “I ain’t gonna repeat myself for your benefit.”

“Believe it when I see it,” Leakee is touching him again, digging fingers into Mox’s thighs, grip tight enough to bruise, even through the denim. “You’re still all talk.”

Mox takes his hand, deliberately holds it up directly in front of Leakee’s face, wiggling the fingers a bit, before placing it on his erection, squeezing it through the fabric. The noise that comes out of his mouth, at that touch, is a gasping sort of whine, and his hips push up against Mox, into his hand, again. “This enough action for you, yet?”

Something flashes in Leakee’s eyes, like there’s light, fire, coming from inside them. “Not by a long shot,” he says, and Mox grins down at him, hoping to hear just that. He backs away, sliding a hand down over his abs, pulling the other away from Leakee and using them to undress himself, completely, on his own terms.

Leakee pulls his own shirt off, breaking down little by little, just before Mox drops his pants, no underwear beneath. He doesn’t say a word about Mox’s body, but those eyes are a comment all their own, enough that Mox’s smugness must rival Leakee’s by now. Mox pulls roughly at the briefs still covering him, the only thing left between them, and when he’s disposed of them, tossed to the side, straddles Leakee once more and bends down to kiss him, hard. He ignores the press of a cock against his lower stomach — acts like it’s not even there, like he can’t feel a thing, even with Leakee moving fairly insistently against him, trying to create friction. It’s never the substrate that dictates the rate of reaction, and Mox is determined to fully control the pace, here, between them.

Which is why, when the bottle of lube he’d had on his bedside table is shoved into his hand before their mouths even break apart, he slaps a hand sharply against a firm chest and decides that any bruises and marks he leaves behind tonight will be made not with his mouth but with his fists. Business as usual, as far as Mox is concerned, and it’s not like Leakee deserves anything out of the ordinary, anything special from him. “Your goddamn lack of patience is really wearin’ mine thin,” he growls, immediately after breaking his own rule and biting down on Leakee’s lower lip.

“Yeah, because you’ve always shown so much restraint before.”

His eyes, in the split second that Mox allows Leakee’s to meet his, look victorious, and there’s a quick sting of annoyance before Mox bares his teeth. “You wanna see restraint?” That’s when he pops open the bottle and drizzles the contents over two fingers, before reaching behind himself and slowly pushing one in. Leakee gives a hum, something that sounds like approval though Mox isn’t searching for that, doesn’t care, but as a minute stretches out to two, three, five, and Mox adds a second, third finger and makes his enjoyment clear while he’s just lying there prone, watching, frustration seems to get the better of him.

“Seriously?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mox laughs, his voice breathy and but decidedly no less mocking. “I can do this all night.” He’s deliberately avoiding searching out the the place he really desires contact, wanting to extend this as long as possible but with no intention of getting off without Leakee putting in some work, too. As it is, Leakee is already pulling at his thigh, trying to situate Mox over his cock, and he finally just has to give up and smirk, smearing a messy overabundance of lube up and down Leakee.

“Yeah, well, some of us have schedules and lives that actually matter, so let’s get on with it.” He’s scowling, Leakee, wants Mox to match it, probably, and Mox has always lacked the discipline to avoid taking the bait. When he sinks down, it’s sudden and fast and completely, bringing their hips flush together and a hiss from between his teeth, and Leakee certainly shuts his pretty mouth damn fast. He balances his sticky hands, as best he can, on Leakee’s biceps, finally getting that touch, and hopes his weight cuts off the circulation, causes tingling in the tips of his fingers. It also keeps the other man from touching him, and Mox can just work on him like he meant to, from the beginning, without Leakee’s say.

It’s a difficult position to maintain, though, and eventually Mox pushes himself back and rests his hands on Leakee’s chest. It affords him better leverage, and as his own resolve finally fades and he starts moving in earnest, he can feel the sharp cut of bone, Leakee’s sternum and ribs, expand and contract under his skin.

The feel of his breathing vibrates in Mox’s hands, excites him a little more than he expected, something so fragile right underneath where he’s touching, and he increases the pressure, pushes down a bit. Leakee’s breath stutters as he grabs onto Mox’s thighs, and there’s something of a tremor there, too. Mox is shaking before he knows it, his whole body over, probably the stress of the slow burn when this could have been over ten minutes ago, but he holds out just long enough to watch the ridiculous(ly beautiful) face that Leakee makes as he comes before wrapping a hand around his own dick to finish himself off.

Right before he does, Leakee’s hand covers his own and they do it — not that he wants to think about it that way — together.

Every nerve ending is still singing while Mox lays there, catching his own breath, that same sort of excitement he’d felt before, with Leakee’s lips on his. It’s weird, after their main event is over — he can’t say he cares for it too much, despite the curl of warmth in his stomach.

“We done here?” Leakee asks, pulling on his clothes again. The button on his jeans is hanging limply from where it was sewn into place — a product of Mox’s own impatience, that little fracture indicating the breakdown to come — and he frowns as he tries to close them and the thing falls out completely. Mox is pleasantly surprised when Leakee doesn’t immediately bark at him that he owes him a new pair.

“Not by a long shot,” Mox echoes, Leakee’s words from earlier, because there’s no use pretending like _he’s_ done, at least.

The sound of the door slamming, heralding Leakee’s departure, sticks in Mox’s head for awhile after he’s left. He certainly wasn’t used up, not after one round, but something’s different. Everything’s moved an inch to the left and he can’t put his finger on just why that is.

Probably, probably because he hasn’t finished Leakee off, just yet. Just got started, with him, and there’s plenty further to go.

*

The next week, it’s him waiting on Leakee, outside with a cigarette dangling between two fingers, slouched against the brown brick wall of the building next door. He won his match, tonight, and Mox hopes that doesn’t color his perception of what’s going down in between them, that he expects to win over Mox. But, if that is the case, there’s no time like the present to familiarize yourself with disappointment.

He’s just about ready to consider giving up, marching back in, when the door opens and the man of the hour himself steps out, glancing around before his eyes settle on Mox and focus in. When Mox flicks the unfinished smoke to the ground, the answering smirk on Leakee’s face starts a cascade reaction of its own.


End file.
